


Black Paint & Mayonnaise

by Ducks



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Humor, M/M, Old School, Slash, Spike POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-07
Updated: 2009-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old school plotless smut. Spike's POV on housework, Angel's Obsessive Compulsiveness, dislike of black paint, and penchant for toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Paint & Mayonnaise

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 01/13/2001. A response to Eternal Nightcap's "1000 Hits and Boy, Are Our Implants Tired" challenge:  
> "Must include: Spike and Angel; a dictionary and a thesaurus, a reference to Angel as "Betty Boop"; A parody of the 'Alien' catchline, "In Space, Nobody can hear you scream"; Spike eating yogurt and enjoying it; the line "Go to the bloody ballet."; The line "I come from the land down under"; a blood bag exploding in the microwave. Optional Extras (that I used): Satan, prince of darkness, singing 'Memories'; Cling Wrap on the toilet seat; The line, "You can't do that with a ~blank~" with the response "you can if you're covered in baby oil." And finally, the fic must end in the word, 'mayonnaise.'"
> 
> Heavily influenced by "Days of Our Unlives" by Kita and Jessica, and the bickering loveliness of "Eternal Nightcap".

Angel usually confines his singing to Carita's... or the shower. In the shower, nobody can hear you sing. Thank fucking god. One time the wanker was singing in the bloody kitchen, and I thought for sure my head would explode.

"You know, for such a foofy bastard, you've got one shitty voice. You'd never make it on Broadway."

"Did I ask for your critique?" he grumbles. Pansy's doin' the dishes like the weirdest damn housewife I've ever seen. And his shoulders do that scrunching thing they always do when he gets pissed at me.

"Don't have to. 'S my honor and privilege as your Most Favoured Childe."

"Since when?"

"Since I said so, that's since when."

"I mean, since when are you my Most Favoured Childe?"

A funny whining noise cuts our argument off before it really starts. His eyes go a little wide, and he glances around.

"Spike..." he says... a warning tone that's really more like a growl.

I ignore him. Where the Hell is that damn noise coming from? Sounds like somebody stuck a pin in an Air Elemental.

In a moment, it changes into a high-pitched squeal, growing louder and louder until it finally ends with a really nasty SHPLORT!

Oops.

"SPIKE! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU TO SET THE MICROWAVE ON LOW WHEN YOU'RE HEATING UP YOUR FOOD?"

I put on my innocent face. "What?"

"Don't WHAT me. You've wasted a good gallon of blood in the past two days! This stuff's not cheap, you know! Oh, wait. No, you wouldn't know that, would you, considering *I'M* the only one around here who WORKS FOR A LIVING!!!"

Well... ain't he a right bastard today. Got a fuse about as long as his IQ.

"I work for a living," I inform him.

"CHEATING AT CARDS FOR CIGARETTE MONEY IS NOT WORKING FOR A LIVING!"

I give him my best charming smile. "I also blow your Titanic ass twice a day. I'd say that's work."

He suddenly gets very, very still, blinking like I just slapped him upside the head.

Well... it's true. Betty Boop's cock never had it so good. Not in a hundred years or so, anyway. Don't know what he's looking so shocked for. Not like he didn't know he was a poufter.

"'Sides. Gambling is too working for a living. Do you have any idea how hard it is to cheat demons who can read your mind, or got eyes all over their head?"

His face goes red. I mean, like burgundy. Which is a bloody scary thing to see, considering he's got no circulation to speak of. Wonder if his head's gonna explode like that blood bag. Now that would be interesting.

"Clean. The. Microwave," he snarls, turns on his froofy heel, and stalks out of the room.

Guess he's not gonna sing anymore. And Mrs. Cleaver didn't even finish his dishes. I shrug and grab the sponge out of the sink. Won't do to get my ass pounded... there's a werewolf movie marathon on AMC I don't want to miss.

***

"Spike... what are you doing?"

"Research, mate. Can't you see the bloody books? Thought you'd recognize them on sight, considerin' you always got one superglued to your noncy face."

"You're doing research," he says, like I've just told him I've took up training to be a priest or something.

"I can read, you know."

"Yes, I know. I taught you. I just didn't think you did it without threat of immediate pain if you didn't."

"Yeah, well, times change."

"That's an understatement. So what are you researching? That Borlach we fought the other night?"

I snort at him. Limited imagination, this one. Two things on the planet, in his estimation: do-gooding, and shagging me. Oh, wait. I forgot about brooding. "No, ya plonker. I'm looking up synonyms."

"Synonyms."

"Yeah. You know, those things that have the same meaning as other things?"

"I know what a synonym is, Spike."

"Well good for you, then. Shut up and let me concentrate."

He stands there, quiet for a minute, like his skull really is as dense as it looks, and it takes a while for him to process stuff. I wonder if it's his soul that's thick. Angelus never took time to think things over. He would've had me strung up and whipped bloody by now.

"Why are you looking up synonyms, Spike? And of what?"

"Well..." I glance at the paper where I've got my notes, "I'm looking up synonyms for homosexual."

Angel blinks. "Homosexual."

Jesus. Can't this wanker have a simple conversation without repeating every damn thing I say?

"What, are you, a fucking vampire parrot, now? Yeah, fucking homosexual! Faggot. Fairy. Nonce. Poufter. Bugger. Butt-fucker. Fudge packer. You." I hold up the dictionary, "Wanna see the picture?"

He sighs. And that little vein in his forehead starts to stick out. Another funny thing for a bloke without a beating heart. I guess I kinda get to him that way.

"Thank you. I know what it means. And I really don't think you got those from the thesaurus. What I want to know is why."

I shrug. "Bored."

Now I swear he's thinking about asking me what I found. Either that, or his brain just exploded, and he can't move, because he just stands there staring at me with this vacant look on his face. Oh wait. That's his regular look.

"Why can't you do something constructive? Like, for instance... your laundry. Or... for another instance, cleaning the bathroom. Or dusting. Or anything besides sitting around on your ass, drinking beer, making a mess, and staring at the damn television all day?"

I pick up the dictionary and look up "gay". There aren't a whole lot of good "standard" English words for two blokes scrogging each other. Which is funny, considering there's so much of it going on. The irony of the fact that "gay" also means happy, when applied to him, is really bloody funny.

"Don' feel like it," I tell him. What, am I his bitch and his maid? I don't think so.

I can smell his blood boiling. I'd like to look up and watch him melt down, but I think if I want to avoid a good, solid beating, I'd better just keep the old submissive thing going on. Don't make eye contact with the alpha, especially when he's all over your ass about doing housework, and he's a damn anal retentive bastard with a penchant and particular flair for really slow, intense torture.

"You... don't... you...I can't..." he splutters. Damn eloquent, my Sire.

Okay. I know how to solve this problem. "You should go to the bloody ballet," I tell him.

Now his face makes a really interesting expression. This mixture of fury and utter confusion that scrunches his eyes up into little slits, and his mouth purse like an old pepperpot forgot to put milk in her tea.

"What."

Not a question, exactly. More of a 'I can't believe I whelped such an idiot' sort of comment.

"Ballet. You know... fairies in pants so tight, you can tell whether they're circumcised from the back row? Stupid music gives you a headache worse than punching a human? No, that's just me. You should go. Take Queen Big Tits.  
Bet she'd look juicy in an evening gown."

To illustrate my point, I hold up a pair of tickets to the LA Rep's Swan Lake his little dork buddy Nabbitt dropped by while he was sleeping.

"You... got tickets to the ballet."

Oh yeah, he's gonna break. Any second.

I shrug.

"Why?" he asks, suddenly all soft and sweet and lovey dovey.

Damn, I'm good. God of friggin' timin', is what I am.

"You deserve it. You work hard," I say. Okay, so I might be pushing it now. In fact, I'm sure I am, because when I look up again, his 'you really suck' scowl is back. "Nabbitt brought 'em by," I confess.

"I should have known. Powers forbid you ever do anything unselfish," he snaps, and starts to stomp off.

I'm about to lose what little leverage I just gained. But I'll tell you what, I haven't lived for a hundred and thirty some odd years being a one-trick pony. I grab his leg to stop him, and rise up to my knees. His frown doesn't fade, but one of those Neanderthal eyebrows shoots up an inch or two. I give him my most charming smile. He blinks again as I undo the fly of his noncy silk slacks, and set his semi-hard cock free, giving it a gentle stroke or two.

He sighs and closes his eyes.

For a honorable, stalwart superhero, he's awful cheap and easy.

And pretty damn virile, for a dead guy. In two seconds, his huge wank is hard as a rock. Angel's got a nice Johnson... long, thick, and gets solid as a steel pole when you so much as look at it. Tastes sweet, too. I trace the bulging vein on the underside with a nice, firm stroke of tongue. He shivers.

"This isn't fair," he gasps.

"Well, I am evil," I remind him, then suckle one of his nuts into my mouth. I roll it around gently for a moment, then switch and do the same to the other. His knees start shaking, and he balances by resting a hand on top of my head.

"Jesus," he groans. For an overeducated ponzy, he's got a limited vocabulary in the sack.

"He's not here," I inform him, and run my tongue around his now-bulging head. Angel chuckles, deep in his chest. The sound turns into a half-groan, half-growl, when I slide him slow, deep, and tight into my mouth. I gotta say, I give some damn great head, because it's not two or three good, long sucks before he's making this moaning noise that sounds sort of like "mmmnnnnmmmm..." Then he starts bloody purring. I love that.

Now I'm fucking hard, too. Oh well.

"S..Spike..." he hisses. He's gonna fall over, so I push him backward until his back is against the wall. He grunts when he hits it, and his cock is driven deeper into my throat. The purring starts right back up again, his big hands all tangled in my hair and pulling... which I also love... I cup his balls for a minute, then lightly stroke the satiny skin between them and his ass. "Fuck!" he grunts. His dick jerks in my mouth. He's close, now. I increase the pace a little bit... suck a little harder, and add flickering tongue to the mix. The noise he makes is like, "Ughnnnnn...g-godspikegod..."

See? Limited vocabulary. I don't know why he bothers trying to run his mouth during sex. He sounds like an idiot. And me with throat muscles can suck a golf ball through a garden hose... And a hard-on you could cut diamonds  
with. I suck harder, and let my fingers do the walking back to the crack of his sweet ass. I trace little circles around the puckered muscle, and now his cock is doing a fucking Mexican Hat Dance in my mouth, and he's seeping pre-cum like a damn leaky sprinkler. I tickle it away with a flick of the tongue on the upstroke, at the same moment I sink my forefinger into his arsehole. His whole body goes totally rigid, and I can't even imitate the sounds he's making now. He grabs me on either side of my head and starts fucking my face hard enough to make my teeth rattle. I ram a second finger in and wiggle.

"GAH!" he shouts, and slams one last time into my tonsils as he comes. He does this funny thing where he goes all completely still, and sometimes I'm sure he's just going to turn into one big charley horse, his body gets so tense.

But you better bloody believe he's quiet. What do the French call it? Little heart attack or something? Shuts that big gob right up.

Angel keeps sliding his softening penis in and out of my mouth for a few minutes as he gets his bearings back. He pulls out, and fixes up his trousers. I grin up at him, licking my lips.

Big ox glowers down at me. "Thank you. But I still want you to start doing housework."

Damn it.

***

I decided to paint his bathroom on a whim. I had a can that I stole from the hardware store last week, and that's the only room in the house small enough to finish with one can.

Dunno why I stole a can of paint. Don't ask so many questions.

Anyway, Angel's out playing Batman, and all he gets on the telly is PBS when the cable's out. He doesn't own a damn thing I feel like reading, 'cept maybe that collection of Victorian porn he's got stashed in the back of his closet that he thinks I don't know about. Nasty stuff, that.

So... painting. He doesn't have any newspaper, and I know damn well he'd blow an undead gasket if I got paint all over the parquet floor. But, I figure what I've worked out will do just fine. I wrap all the appliances up tight, cover the floor and get to it.

Got Men at Work stuck in my head, for some reason. That one tune they had, there... went, "I come from the land under", which is really kind of a nasty double entendre, if you think about it right. Down under what? Makes me chuckle.

Sing the whole song ten or fifteen times, and I'm done. Damn, I'm good. He wanted housework... I think this counts. Looks nice. Gives the bathroom a sort of mysterious air. Doesn't really match the blue accents of his faggy towels, but... hey, I did it for free, right? Maybe I can get some of that RIT dye and fix them, too.

Bally K's on PBS, so I settle in to bed with a pint of Hot O and the Count Chokula to watch and wait for Father Froofy to get home.

I'm not known for my patience. I fall asleep inside ten seconds. Only to be awakened by what I would think was an enraged grizzly, if it wasn't for the barely discernible English.

"SPIKEWHATHEFUCKINGHELLDIDYOUDOTOMYGODDAMNBATHROOM???"

I jerk upright. "What?!"

Oh... shit. He comes stalking out, covered in some kind of purple and green puss-y slime, and his face is WAY beyond a glower or scowl. This is an Angelus face. Complete with fangs. My ass, as they say, is grass. I'm up off the bed in a split second, ready to bugger right off if I can't talk my way out of this.

"You. Painted. My. Fucking. Bathroom. Black. BLACK! And there's FUCKING SARAN WRAP ON THE TOILET SEAT!" he screeches. "I WANT TO TAKE A GODDAMN SHOWER, AND THERE'S BLACK PAINT CLOGGING THE FUCKING HEAD! ARE YOU BRAIN DAMAGED? INSANE? RETARDED? WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?"

Okay. Now he's just over reacting.

"Rough day, Peaches?" I ask, crawling back to bed again.

He growls. No, I swear. Growls. Game face all slimy with the crud of whatever demon he's been out killing, flashing his fangs. I'm pretty sure I should be running, but this is so damn much fun, I don't want to move. I pick up the mostly empty cereal box and kick back to watch him lose it.

Believe me, this scene will lead to some mind-blowing sex.

He takes a step toward me. "I'm going to kill you," he says, cold and calm. Angelus voice.

Wonder if he can lose his soul if he gets pissed enough. Interesting prospect. 'Cept Angelus really would kill me.

I give him my wicked boy smile. Sometimes that works. Not tonight. His yellow eyes go wider, and flash in response to my casual disregard for his fury.

"Don't like the paint job?" I ask.

I never did really learn to keep my mouth shut, even when it's in my best interest.

He starts pacing, hissing like a damn two-legged snake. "You eat my food. You run up my electricity bill. You break everything you put your hands on. You leave crumbs in my bed. You throw your filthy clothes all over my furniture. You track mud over my tile floors. You harass my employees... who also happen to be my friends. You endlessly mock me and everything I do, believe, and care about. You PAINT... MY BATHROOM... BLACK! This, I think, rates a very, very thorough STAKING!"

He's not gonna stake me. But, just in case...

"Fucking," I say.

He blinks. It looks really funny on a vampire face. "Pardon me?"

"The fucking. You forgot that I blow you six ways from Tuesday, shag you till you weep like a baby, and take it up the ass like a champ. I've reminded you what it feels like to be a damn vampire without having to burden your bloody pristine soul, and what it feels like to have somebody touch you and make you feel good without you waking up feeling the irresistible urge to get the world sucked into Hell."

Angel's human face reappears. He looks so damn cute, all covered with monster puss, and that put-upon, guilty Sire expression. But... I did just win, so. I guess I can give a little.

"I'll fix it tomorrow, okay?" I promise. "Back to poncy eggshell white. Will that make you happy?"

He looks down at the bed. He desperately wants to sit, but it gives him a spasm just to think about demon gunk on his high thread count Pier 1 sheets. So he just stands there and looks pathetic.

Damn it if I don't feel bad, now. I get up and peel off his coat, careful to hang it up on the back of the door. Don't need to have him turn to dust from me throwing the puss-crusted thing on his precious chair. I lead him into the black bathroom, and he just follows, resigned, like a damn whooped puppy. I peel off his shirt. No mean task, either, as this gunk seems to turn to Plexiglas when it hardens.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

I roll my eyes. He's always sorry. Remorseful's his goddamn middle name. 'Course... he doesn't have a last name, so I guess Remorseful would be his last name.

"No skin off my teeth, mate." Hell, he used to do worse to me on a good day, way back when. I turn around and screw off the showerhead. Angel sinks down on the plastic-wrapped toilet with a weary sigh. I pick the dried paint out of the little holes in the shower head, and screw it back in, turn on the tap, and let the water get good and skin-peeling hot, the way he likes it. The steam rolls around, and I gotta say, it's a cool effect against the black walls and ceiling. I pull my Sire back up off the toilet and help him work his way out of his crusty trousers.

"You're right," he says, as I crouch down to tug off his fruity silk boxers, "You do a lot for me. I should show you more appreciation."

He's naked, now, and damn, but my Sire's a fucking beautiful piece of manflesh. And I'll admit, I do get an illicit little jolly when he's all soul-ly and repentant. You spend a few decades with the most sadistic, nutcase vampire on the face of the planet and see if you don't get hard knowing you might get to dominate him 'cause he feels bad about it.

"Shuttin' your trap would be a good start," I tell him, divesting myself of my jeans, and turn him toward the stall. "Now get your fat ass in the shower."

Angel gives me an intimate little grin as he climbs in. He always grins when he thinks he's done something that needs forgiving, and I forgive him. I think he forgets I'm a soulless demon, and don't much give a shit what he says to me. But that grin usually leads to me begging for the high hard one anyway.

He hisses as the hot water splashes over him. I grab the wash cloth (which is, lucky me, paint free) and soap it up with that fruity Crabtree &amp; Evelyn oatmeal soap he likes so much. I start working the crust off the expanse of  
his shoulders. He groans as I work my fingers into the stiff muscles.

"You're too good to me," he sighs.

"Yeah, well. You haven't staked me, yet, so I guess you rate a bit of attention."

He chuckles and relaxes as I scrub my way down his shoulders, his waist, and his ass. Damn, he's beautiful. Big and hard as a rock all over. Who says dumb Irish farmboy's don't have their uses?

I turn him around and he leans his head back under the spray as I wash his front. Work the soapy cloth with my fingertips into his pecks, his lats, his abs. Naturally, he's flinty stiff, and he moans as my hands and the hot water caress his filthy skin until he's red as nice, hot dinner.

I want to fuck him so bad, I'm ready to come all over myself. I drop the cloth, reach up and take his face in my hands, and start nibbling at his damn delicious full lips. Angel always tastes like cinnamon, which for the unlife of me, I never got, since he doesn't eat. But anyway... I lap it out of his mouth, off his teeth. He sucks on my tongue, and bloody HELL I want him. Fuck this foreplay bullocks.

I turn him around again, and set to licking every damn curve of bulging muscle in that back. He gets off on having me trace the lines of his stupid tattoo, so I take my time doing that part. He moans and braces his big hands against the wall. If we were human, we'd be drowning, what with the water pouring over our heads. But I'll tell you what... there's nothing quite like 99° water on 62.3° skin to make a bloke horny.

I run my hands down his sides, nipping at the length of his spine as I bend him over. He shifts his weight, spreading his long legs for balance, and I take a moment to slide my body down his, then up it again, bringing my hard-on to rest between his thighs, rubbing up underneath his balls.

"Spike..." he moans.

God, I love it when he says my name like that.

"Yes, Sire," I breathe into his skin, then bite down hard on the nape of his neck, giving a few good, long, slow thrusts between his legs, "What is your will?"

I love doing Sub lines when I'm Top.

Angel groans, deep and loud enough that I can feel it. "Fuck me...please..."

Okee dokee, Sire. Your wish is my command. I pull my hips away, and nestle myself between his muscular cheeks. He obligingly bends over further.

"This what you want, Master?" I tease.

Oh yeah. I gotta find ways to make him feel guilty more often.

"Yes, God. Yes... please..." he begs.

Yow.

I rub the head of my penis against his tight hole. Shit, he feels like fucking Heaven when he's warm. I brace one hand on his shoulder, and grasp my dick with the other, squeezing just that first inch into his wet opening.

I think assholes must be eternal, too. His is as tight as a virgin... probably as tight as it was 250 bloody years ago. I give a couple of tiny thrusts, feeling the muscles start to give and relax, but still squeeze me fit to make me shudder from head to foot. And doesn't he fucking WHIMPER!

"Fuck, Angel..." I groan.

He arches his back and shoves against the wall, impaling himself on me with a shout that rattles the shower door. I'm instantly rammed so deep in his ass, I think my cock might break off.

Instant game face.

I set myself a jarring pace, clutching his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, and ram him like the bloody world's coming to an end. And he meets every thrust with a gusto that reminds me this is exactly the way he likes it. His fucking soul loves pain... loves to be dominated.

And you better believe that I love it, too. The smacking of my balls against his wet ass as I drill him raw is like music, set to the pace of those grunts he makes with each thrust. I drape myself over him and reach around to stroke his raging shaft in time with this magnificent goddamn rhythm of my cock being milked by his ass.

Oh, sod-all, I'd do fucking housework twenty-three hours a day if it meant buggering him like this for the last one. He reaches behind and yanks at my hair, and lets out this damn banshee wail, (no, I swear) as he starts shuddering and jerking beneath me. I increase the pace of my hand and hips, driving into him like a damn jackhammer as his jiz shoots all over the shower wall. Two seconds later, I'm right with him, pumping his ass full as I howl just as bloody loud as he did.

He turns off the water as I pull out, turns around, and kisses me for what feels like a week. After thirty seconds of that, both of us are hard as a rock again, and he drags me out of the shower and straight to the bedroom, tossing me face down on the bed.

"My turn, boy," he growls.

Guess I'm forgiven for the bathroom, then.

***

You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but Angel's a damn kinky bastard. Me, all I need is a cock and a hole, and I'm good. But him... he likes to be as creative with his sex as he used to be with his torture.

For instance, he likes to be slick. He throws a big bath sheet on the kitchen tile, greases me up like he's gonna slap me in a frying pan, and slides himself all over me, fucking and sucking till we both pass out.

And toys. He's replaced a cat-o-nine-tails with a dildo the size of Florida, and his needlenose pliers with cock rings and nipple clamps.

Some changes, I guess, are okay by me.

I remember the first time he greased me up... same night he got that dildo, actually. Thing's got to be four or five inches in diameter, and like, a foot long, and looks more like one of his weapons than a sex toy. I just stood there blinking at it, and I'll tell you, I couldn't have been more freaked out if he'd invited Satan, Prince of Darkness, around to serenade us with a rousing rendition of "Memories" while we boinked.

"What the Hell is THAT?" I yelp at him as he holds the damn thing up like it's the Holy Friggin' Grail.

Angel looks at it, obviously disappointed with my reaction. And a little annoyed, telling by his frown. "It's a dildo."

"NO SHIT! JUST WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO DO WITH IT?" I'm thinking seriously about running. Not a lot scares me, but that flesh-colored fireplace log he's waving at me sure as fuck does.

He grins. Not his happy, forgive me grin, but his "I'm Going to Make You Squeal Like a Little Piggy and Love Every Minute of It" grin. "What do you think I'm going to do? Fuck you silly."

I take a step away from him. "LIKE FUCK, YOU ARE! You can't fit that monstrosity in my arsehole, you bloody freak!"

His grin widens and his eyes narrow. Angelus face. The other hand he's been hiding behind his back appears, clutching a clear bottle of something. He takes a step toward me, and holds it up. "You can if you're covered in baby  
oil."

Okay, I admit, the fight or flight reflex pretty quickly disappears. The idea of him rubbing me with those fucking bear paw hands, coating me with oil? I figure I'd probably let him cram a stretch limo up my bung, for that.

Angel takes my hesitation for a yes, and he sets the toys down on the table. "Strip, then wait here for me," he commands, and marches off toward the bathroom.

Fucking Angel is like having an affair with an effin' roller coaster. One minute, he's all weepy-squishy, telling me he loves me and all that rot, next he's got me chained to the bed, and he's bitin' my nipples off... and now, I guess, he'll start bringing home weird shit to fuck me with.

I shrug and strip. He's the Sire, after all, and a consistently damn good lay, whatever he's doing to me. So... I'll trust him.

Never thought those words would come into my brain, that's for sure.

I don't know what the Hell he's doing... probably taking a shower, knowing that obsessive-compulsive wanker. I've been standing here, buck naked, for a good five minutes. Nothing but me and that pink monster and the bottle of  
baby oil on the table.

Screw this. I'm hungry. I open the fridge and pull out a Go-gurt. Pretty neat little invention, really. Yogurt and fruit with a cup or two of extra sugar added for the kiddies, all squeezed into a convenient little tube that... now that I think about it, might actually have some interesting alternative uses. Ever seen "9 1/2 Weeks"? Shoulda been called "1001 Kinky Uses for Everything in Kim Basinger's Fridge". Which gives me a few more ideas.

I slam the yogurt, wanting to polish it off before the pouf comes back and finds me out of position... and eating yogurt. I practically had to clock him in the grocery store to get him to buy it for me. He's got this... thing, a totally nutter thing, if you ask me, against the stuff. I grabbed a box and tossed it into the cart -- and didn't the asshole snatch it out and throw it back! I asked him what the Hell he thought he was doing, but he blew off the question.

I'd bet my wedding tackle it's got something to do with the Slayer, because I started nagging him about it, and he got that face... and started flipping out.

"It's DISGUSTING, Spike! Do you know you're eating a *living thing*?"

I gave him a look. "Er... Peaches... we're vampires. For a hundred years or so each, everything we ate was alive. And usually screaming in protest."

He just sighed, trying to pretend he didn't have Buffyface, and put the package back in the cart with no further argument.

So now, here I am, tossing the empty tube in the garbage, making a mental note about those secondary uses for later, and hop back to attention with my back to the door, where he left me.

Finally, he comes back. He walks around me, and damn if I wasn't right -- he's all nicely showered and April fresh. He lines the kitchenette floor with his thick, fluffy, nancyboy towels, and turns around to look at me.

"Kneel, boy."

I'm on my knees before the words finish coming out of his mouth. And speaking of mouth, as he stands there, his king-sized cock is poking right at mine. I'm a demon of habit, I guess, because I reach for it.

Angel smacks my hand away. "Be still," he growls, and turns away. Actually, his ass is almost as satisfying a view, so I'm not so disappointed. He grabs the baby oil from the tabletop.

That wicked little smirk on his face tells me that I'm going to like this particular relationship development.

He gets down on his knees behind me, and I hear the click and shplurt as he opens the bottle of oil, then the gurgling sound as he pours it into his hands.

Then, nothing. Nothing for an aching bloody eternity while I'm just sitting on my knees, waiting, my pole standing at rapt attention.

"What'rya waitin' for, ya wank?" I yelp. I hate waiting.

Angel growls, low in his chest.

Oops.

Before I even have a change to beg, he jumps on me and wrestles me face down on the floor, rubbing his cock up against my still-dry ass.

"Maybe we should just skip the oil, eh Spike?" rumbles, pinning me beneath his bulk. Damn but he's a fat son-of-a-bitch.

"Suits me," I lie, "Your idea to begin with, *Sire*."

He abruptly eases his weight off me and sits back on his heels. Bet you a fifty, when I turn around, he'll have his "I'm So Sorry For Acting Like My Nutter Bastard Alter Ego" Face.

I get up and look at him.

You owe me fifty bucks.

"I'm sorry," he says.

I roll my eyes. "Don't be. Hell, it's just a little fun, right? Get that bottle, lather me up, and then we can really have an alpha challenge. Whatdya say, mate?"

I really don't want to play therapy, right now. I just want to get to the fucking.

Angel looks at me for a second. Then he smiles, and sod-all don't I just adore his bipolar ass.

He picks up the bottle from where he's tossed it on the floor, and squeezes the cold oil directly on my chest. Amazing sensation, I tell you. We both watch the viscous liquid roll down my torso, and puddle in my short and curlies.

I grin at him. "That's not the whole game, is it?"

He reaches out, slow motion-like, with those hands like Heaven made of flesh and bone, and when he touches me... slides those fingers down my front, across my abs, and finally closes his lubed hand around my dick, I'm already  
about to start begging. He's that good.

Angel takes his time... it's gonna be one of those nights. I may not be much for all the poetry and flowers bunk, but slow, gooey, gentle Angel-love is just as fully satisfying as vicious, violent, bloody Angel-love. I'd say I'm good with all of it.

He rubs every inch of me, inside and out practically, until I'm as slippery as a fish... not sure if that's a good analogy, but... I'm damn slick and shiny, is what I'm saying. He lubes my chest, my stomach, my cock and balls, my legs, my feet...

Good Jumpin' Jesus, he's fucking amazing. No wonder the birds go all squiggy for his ass.

He turns me over and does the backs of my legs. Long, deep strokes of strong fingers into my muscles. Does my rear, lower back, shoulders, neck, all gentle and firm, and I'm now wet and shiny... and hard as damn stone.

While Angel's oiling me up, he rubs his body against me, and by the time he' s done, I'm just a puddle of quivering Spike Jell-O underneath him. He slides his whole length down my back with a breathy moan, and I'm grinding  
into the towel in spite of myself, dying for that friction on my aching cock.

What I really want, of course, are his long fingers, or his mouth wrapped around it. Or better yet, the vice grip of his asshole.

After. For now, this is his game. And so far, I'm liking it just fine.

His last act in the prelim is the one he takes the longest with. He starts kneading my buttocks again, then slowly slides a finger up and down the crack, underneath to my perineum, and tickling my throbbing nuts. I just start groaning senselessly, and he does it again, up this time. He squeezes the oil directly into my cleft, and I'm shuddering like crazy to feel it ooze down.

He parts the globes of my ass, and I feel his cold breath on the wet skin as he eases his face down. His tongue gently traces the same trail his fingers just blazed, and I'm about ready to bloody explode from the tingles his mouth is setting off in my lower body.

Angel tongues my oily ass tenderly, rimming the ring of muscle, then pushing it inside and fucking me lightly, with shivering little strokes.

I'm humpin' the floor, at this point.

One of his long fingers soon replaces his tongue, and DAMN... it's slick, and he plunges deep, stroking my damn prostate until I'm grunting like a rutting dog. Then, he adds another finger, and works me right into a whimpering frenzy. Then a third. And finally, he forces in a fourth, and that fucking HURTS! But once my muscles relax, it feels incredible, the friction setting my every damn nerve on fire. He uses his free hand to urge me up to my hands and knees, and I position myself with my head on the floor, my arse wavin' up in the air, and my legs spread as far as they can go.

"Sire...Sire... fuck... Sire..." I'm chanting like the pouf himself, right in time with his whole hand banging my ass.

Suddenly, he stops and pulls out. I feel him lean toward the table, and my dick starts jumping with joy, knowing what's coming next.

He squeezes the last out of the bottle and rubs his hands together, and one of them returns to my crack, slicking my hole up good. The other one's probably lubing up that battering ram.

The tip of it is cold against my sphincter. Angel drapes himself over my back and starts murmuring soothingly in my ear.

"Just relax. It won't hurt for long," he promises gently, "Just go with it."

Little different than the first time he buggered me.

Then he starts to push the fucking thing in, and I'm here to tell you, it feels twice as big as it looks, even though it's soaked with oil. It fucking hurts as he gently urges it in, and I can practically hear my colon cracking as it's stretched to the breaking point. I bite into my wrist to keep from screaming with the agony of it. Who says Angel's given up torture as a passtime?

But, as it turns out... he's a fucking artist, because as he keeps whispering and crooning to me in comfort, doesn't he just get that whole monstrosity sheathed to the hilt inside me. He leaves it there once it's in, and after a minute, the ripping pain changes... My body accommodates its girth, and I can finally relax. When he feels that, Angel starts sliding it out, slow... that burning again, but now it's a fucking AMAZING burning, and every inch of me is on fire with it. All I can do is groan.

"You okay?" he whispers as he pulls the dildo almost all the way out, and holds it still again.

My answer? One of his trademark noises. Something like, "bluhrggghhhhhmmmmblbb..."

He chuckles. Yeah, so, now it's me that sounds like a moron. Right this particular second, I don't give a toss, because he starts sliding that gargantuan dong back into my ass, all the way in, so I can feel the tip of it in my friggin' chest. Out again. In. Out. In. Out. Fucking me right into the gates of Heaven, he is.

He slowly increases the pace, and it's not long before I'm impaling myself on it, shouting with his every spine-splitting thrust, and Angel starts grunting as he rams it into me, and reaches under to milk my cock with his slick hand. I can feel his lurching against the inside of my thighs, and he just humps away at my legs, jerking me off and shagging the Hell out of me with that telephone pole, and I can smell my blood start leaking out. He can smell it to, by the demon growls he's starting to make. He jerks me like he's gonna yank it right off, and holy SHIT am I gonna come! Angel stops thrusting the dildo, leaving it impaled in my ass, and pulls me up to my knees so his chest is sliding against my back. I squeeze my thighs around his cock, and he fucks the shit out of them, pumping my rod for all he's worth, and then damn if he doesn't snarl and tear into my jugular and start drinking me.

I start screaming like a little girl as I blow my load into his hand, and I feel him coating my inner thighs, and we're just a spasming, snarling, bellowing, jerking mess of cum and blood and baby oil for a good, long while.

Finally, we both collapse onto the towel, and Angel gently eases the stretch limo out of me, and licks the burning hole with cool, soothing strokes of his tongue, then blankets my body with his own, holding me close.

Yep. Sometimes it's a damn fine thing, to be the Master's bitch. At least, when the Master's Angel, Superhero and Former Scourge of Europe.

"Okay. I'll do the laundry tomorrow," I promise. Hell, I'd lick the whole hotel clean, right now.

He laughs. "That's okay. I think you're excused from housework for a little while."

I peek over my shoulder at him. "The nagging, too?"

He answers with one of those long, goopy kisses on the mouth.

I guess don't mind his froofiness, so much.

"Can we play one of my games now?" I ask him.

Angel climbs off me, and I sit up.

"What kind of game?" He's half wary, half anticipatory.

I nod toward the fridge. "Ever seen '9 1/2 Weeks'?"

His caveman brow furrows. "The one with Mickey Rourke?"

"Yup."

"And the food."

I grin. "Yup. That'd be the one. You game for some Jell-O up your ass?"

He grins back. "As long as you promise to lick it out."

Boing! goes my cock. "Deal. Bend over, Sunshine."

Angel gets on his hands and knees, and fuck me if that isn't the most erotic thing I've ever seen. I make a beeline for the fridge before he can change his mind. I throw open the door and take a quick scan of the contents, the vision of his juicy ass urging me on.

No Jell-O. Okay... Damn. No more yogurt, either. No butter, no fruit, no salad oil, no nothing.

This is the first time I've ever regretted not going to the grocery store when he asked me to.

Ah. There's something. I grab the jar and crawl back over to where he's waiting for me. I unscrew the cap in record time, and slather my dick with the thick stuff. Then I put a good wad on my fingers and ease them into his tight hole.

"Mmm..." he moans. "What is that? It feels... so good..."

I slowly finger fuck him with the goop. "You have to guess."

He thrusts back, slow and long, onto my hand. "Just...uhhhhh... tell me... Spike."

Oh, shit. Dunno if he's gonna like this, much. I increase the pace of my fingers a little first, just to keep him distracted, and tell him.

"Mayonnaise."

~Finis~


End file.
